Scarred Perfection
by momoxtoshiro
Summary: She sees her reflection, that her face has been permanently damaged. In her eyes, first horror, dismay, and pity, realizing she can never have the perfect appearance she's always strived for. But then she blinks, and it's thoughtfulness and acceptance showing in her gaze, as though she had known all along she could never be perfect like she should have been. And she accepts that...


**After watching the White trailer at least a thousand times over, I just could not stop myself from noticing the expression on Weiss's face right after the Giant Armor strikes her, because you can see so much in her eyes. Although at this time it's still unclear of how she received her scar, and it's neither confirmed nor denied that it was from that hit, this is just a quick little drabble assuming that it was. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY.**

* * *

Scarred Perfection

Weiss could feel the chilling presence of her breath as it billowed up before her.

The cold, gray stage was shrouded partially in forlorn darkness, the other half drowned in painful, scrutinizing light.

She knew not how many eyes were upon her, hundreds, thousands… or perhaps none at all. After all, did one such as herself truly even deserved to be spared a second glance?

She inhaled deeply, drawing back in the very breath she had previously expelled, her fingertips ghosting over the frigid hilt of the rapier resting at her hip.

The Giant Armor stood slowly, its massive existence towering lengths over her insignificant one. The huge head turned downward, and though it had no eyes to be seen, Weiss knew it was staring at her.

No, it was staring _through_ her.

She knew this for a fact, for it was how she had been looked upon all her life; always being observed from above. Being examined. Being tested.

Her fingers gripped the handle of her blade tightly, feeling the satisfyingly familiar sensation of the weapon sliding up diagonally across her side as she drew it out.

The Giant Armor advanced, raising its sword. Weiss held her ground a second longer; one last breath, in and out. Then, she twisted backward, shifting her weight upward into an easy flip to avoid the attack. She regained her balance immediately, for she knew the rules of the battlefield that had been drilled into her body and soul since day one; once you were down, you were out.

With a swiftness almost too superior to be of this world, she took up her stance flawlessly, pointing the tip of her blade directly at her adversary before she propelled herself forward in a straight line. She felt the rough impact as metal clashed with metal; a slight trembling from the repercussions threatened to creep up her arm, but she ignored it altogether, forbidding such an amateurish reaction from her body.

She leaped, once again flawlessly, keeping her legs together and slightly bent at the perfect angle as her dress twirled out around her in a perfectly symmetrical circle.

Her landing was quick and balanced as she took up her next stance, not sparing so much as another breath. A burst of speed. Another clash of metal. A horizontal cut. A flurry of jabs. A parry of blocks and counter slashes. Her opponent swung again, and Weiss could only manage a defensive position this time, sending her skidding back across the stage.

But even in her state of temporary retreat, she maintained her posture.

Posture, posture, _posture_. The word that her entire life had revolved around; perfect, prideful appearance.

And yet what did she have to be proud of? Nothing.

That was what they had always told her. Nothing. You have nothing. You _are_ nothing.

Another swing forced her into another dodge, cartwheeling sideways, then instantly backward, her body curving effortlessly as she soared through the air.

It was then she realized the air was no longer stagnant; now it was alive. It was alive with motion, alive with eager anticipation of the fight, alive with movement and excitement and fear.

Weiss gladly breathed that air into her lungs.

Again she was knocked down and she slid along her back. The air left her body briefly as she scoffed in disgust at her own unseemly appearance. This was the third time she had been pushed back, and that was already three times too many.

She forced herself upward, moving her arms with impeccable speed as she created another spell; a circle, a swipe, and then a brush against the hard ground, commanding the surface to become her weapon as she traced her circle of Dust beneath her nimble feet.

She threw herself forward, her body weightless as she slid along the path she had traced for herself. Two dodges, a jump, another assortment of slashes, another perfectly executed attack.

Again she spun, twisting her body at just the right angle that allowed for the accurate placement of her strikes. She could feel herself adjusting to the battlefield, using it to her advantage. The stage was not unlike herself, perfectly straight. Hard. Cold.

Her mind repeated the words that her existence revolved around: Posture. Balance. Poise.

Even her attacks were symmetrical, every swing to the left followed up immediately by a swing to the right. Naturally, she kept her weight balanced as well, never spending a second longer with an ounce of pressure more on one side as opposed to the other.

A barrage of swipes. Another leap. Another combination of clean, powerful jabs, each resulting in a satisfyingly loud echo of scraping armor.

Air Step. Jump. Swing. The process repeated several times as she planned out her next move before the second in which it would take place even existed.

And then, the air changed. Suddenly it was hot, screaming betrayal at her after keeping cold for so long.

The giant fist collided with her chest, a searing pain spreading immediately throughout her torso as the rib-crushing impact violently forced the breath from her body; but she then decided she hardly deserved her breath anyway. Another mistake, and so she allowed herself the harsh punishment her own failures deserved.

Even her fall was graceful, although she could never know it.

The ground joined the air in its betrayal of her, knocking whatever breath left in her lungs back out again as she collapsed momentarily.

_Up. Get up._

She pushed her pathetic self on shuddering arms as she lifted her body again. Her skin was already cold, it always had been; yet somehow it grew even colder as she witnessed a dreadful sight.

Her reflection gazed back at her from the polished stage, the same pale complexion she had grown so very sick of seeing over the past seventeen years. Only now there was an even more horrid appearance staring back up at her with those same pitiful eyes.

A gash above her left eye seeped warm blood down her cheek, effectively dyeing her face dark red in drastic contrast to her white skin before dripping to the ground.

And it was in that moment that Weiss knew. She knew she could never be perfect.

Her clothes could be changed. Her hair could be styled. Her body could be altered. But her face was the only aspect of herself she could never change. And yet it had now been changed for her.

The realization hit her first in the form of horror, the horror that she could now never be what she had lived her entire life to be.

Next it was dismay, dismay that reminded her that she had utterly failed in everything she did, just as everyone had told her she would.

There was an instance of pity as she remembered the words that had been spoken to her: "Poor child. Such a sweet little fool. To think you could ever amount to anything." These were the very thoughts that reminded her she was not worthy of her own breath.

But it was also in that instance of gazing upon her reflection when her irises shifted, and something moved within her.

She blinked, thoughtful.

A scar.

How fitting; a stain preventing perfection, just like her very existence.

She closed her eyes. The lights went out. She breathed again.

_To hell with it all._

She was destined to fail since before she was born, destined to be flawed, to be scarred. These concepts had been hammered into her skull even before she could speak.

Therefore, it was at that moment she decided to live up to her destiny to fail.

She stood now, scarred, angry, resolved, taking up her own position rather than the one her body had been drilled to recall. Her opponent moved, and so did she.

However, she was no longer bound by the strict style she had been told to learn, to perfect. She relaxed her posture ever so slightly, loosened her shoulders, deepened her breath.

Then, an upward strike to deflect a downward one, followed by a freely timed spin that exploded the ground into a path of ice. A gust of wind rose up from her motion, sending her forward.

She predicted her opponent's next move, witnessed the attack as though she were executing it herself. It was as though the blood clouding her vision enhanced her eyesight now as she dodged swiftly. She landed on the larger blade, rolled to get in closer, struck again, unarmed her adversary.

She felt its hollow stare upon her now, haughty and furious. But her appearance, the only thing that mattered in her life, had been permanently damaged. Nothing fazed her anymore. Nothing.

It charged, advancing at her with the very fists that had given her the stain on her complexion.

One last dodge, one last spell. One last wave of her arms, one last soaring jump. One last calculating glare, one last hit.

She landed, the sound of armor and ice shattering deafeningly behind her, her unbalanced hairstyle sending streams of alabaster out over her right shoulder, and only her right.

She opened her eyes.

They were clapping. The swallowing darkness and blinding light had returned.

And yet she could see.

There was a slight pain above her left eye, a minuscule crinkle that prevented her from seeing anything completely properly ever again. She would be forced to see the imperfect world through imperfect eyes.

And that was why she knew she could never be perfect.

Rather, she could never be anyone else's version of perfect. But Weiss had decided to create her own form of perfection that was always slightly skewed, slightly slouched, slightly off-balance. It would cause every eyebrow to twitch, every foot to stomp, every voice to growl.

And yet, she would master it, perfect it, and make it her own.

_To hell with it all._

She sidestepped as she raised the ends of her dress in a curtsy, leaning slightly left as she finished her act.

She could never be perfect now; there was absolutely no way. She was stained, she was scarred, she was destined to fail.

And yet she was free.

Weiss dusted her fingertips over that scar.

She let her pale lips curve into a smile.

And she breathed.

* * *

**A/N: I really encourage you to go back and rewatch the trailer and just look at her expression after she sustains the blow, because you can actually _see_ her become stronger in those 3 seconds alone; it's one of my favorite scenes of the trailer because it speaks so much about her.**

**Also please don't explode on me about the inaccuracies in regards to the trailer. Like I said, it's still not clear how she got her scar or if it was even from that fight at all. Also the audience and the time in which her fight takes place as opposed to her song... just let it slide this once, okay? (I wrote this the night before a midterm rather than studying...ehehe).**

**Please review!**


End file.
